


Menthol Cherry Red

by JumpingJackFlash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JumpingJackFlash/pseuds/JumpingJackFlash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling ectoBiologist [EB] -</p><p>CG: THE INEVITABLE HAS OCCURRED.<br/>CG: SOME MICROORGANISM ENDEMIC TO THIS FECULENTLY OVERCROWDED PLANET HAS MUTATED SUFFICIENTLY TO COLONIZE MY DEFENSELESS BLOODSTREAM.<br/>CG: MIMICKING PRECISELY THE SCENARIO FROM THE HUMAN LITERARY CLASSIC ‘WAR OF THE WORLDS’<br/>CG: EXCEPT THAT INSTEAD OF SAVING THE HUMANS FROM DESTRUCTION AT THE GRUESOME APPENDAGES OF MINDLESS GENOCIDAL MONSTERS, THIS HEROIC MICROBE HAS SAVED YOUR PATHETIC ASS FROM MY COMPAF;DS’<br/>CG: COMPARATIVELY MILD WRATH AT YOUR COMPLETE FUCKING INABILITY TO EVER DO DISHES EVER.<br/>CG: SO BASICALLY NOTHING LIKE THE BOOK AT ALL EXCEPT THAT I’M DISEASED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buffdaddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffdaddy/gifts).



> aze has the flu and asked for johnkat sickfic. i also have the flu, so i wrote him some. do not question my nyquil logic. (edit: oh look, he has an ao3 account so i can do the official gifty thing!)

When you wake up in the middle of the afternoon, it's just a tickle in your throat, a vague sense of unease. Your breakfast tastes weird, but you just assume the milk is going off. You brush your fangs and take a shower and try to wake the hell up.  
  
An hour later, you're a wreck.  
  
Your head is splitting open. You can't seem to get warm. You put on a sweater. You put on a sweater over the sweater. You stare at the work you did yesterday and can't make heads or tails of it. You may not be apeshit bananas at computers like a certain duotone douche, but you don't suck anymore, you're good enough to make a living so you don't have to mooch off your roommate, you're good enough to write this code on your screen so _why the fuck can't you read it?_  
  
Your nose whistles when you breathe. You sniff hard, feel snot hit the back of your throat, and it flips a switch from 'itchy tickle' to 'racking cough that nearly knocks you out of your chair'. By the time it finally lets you go you're sweaty and shaking.  
  
Gripping the edge of your desk so hard your claws leave dents, you stare into the yawning depths of horror. You played and fought and grieved and triumphed for _this_? A sweep, a couple years of peace in a joint universe with all your friends, a universe where your empty quadrants aren't a death sentence and your mutant blood is a mere annoyance, where the closest thing to strife you have to face is a cereal fight with John over the kitchen table... and then death by respiratory infection in the comfort of your own apartment.  
  
When you think of it like that... it's not so bad.  
  
 **\- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling ectoBiologist [EB] -**  
  
 **CG: THE INEVITABLE HAS OCCURRED.**  
 **CG: SOME MICROORGANISM ENDEMIC TO THIS FECULENTLY OVERCROWDED PLANET HAS MUTATED SUFFICIENTLY TO COLONIZE MY DEFENSELESS BLOODSTREAM.**  
 **CG: MIMICKING PRECISELY THE SCENARIO FROM THE HUMAN LITERARY CLASSIC 'WAR OF THE WORLDS'**  
 **CG: EXCEPT THAT INSTEAD OF SAVING THE HUMANS FROM DESTRUCTION AT THE GRUESOME APPENDAGES OF MINDLESS GENOCIDAL MONSTERS, THIS HEROIC MICROBE HAS SAVED YOUR PATHETIC ASS FROM MY COMPAF;DS'**  
 **CG: COMPARATIVELY MILD WRATH AT YOUR COMPLETE FUCKING INABILITY TO EVER DO DISHES EVER.**  
 **CG: SO BASICALLY NOTHING LIKE THE BOOK AT ALL EXCEPT THAT I'M DISEASED.**  
 **CG: YOU CAN HABJD**  
 **CG: '**  
 **CG: YOU CAN HAVE MY ONE PIECE FIGURES ON THE CONDITION THAT VRISKA IS NEVER TO TOUCH THEM.**  
 **CG: I DON'T CARE HOW PERSUASIVELY SHE ARGUES THAT ALL THINGS PIRATICAL ARE SOMEHOW HER PURLIEU, IF YOU LET HER SOCIOPATHIC GRIPNUBS POLLUTE THEIR PURE FRIENDSHIP I WILL HAUNT YOUR ASS.**  
 **CG: AND NOT IN A FUN JUMPSUITS-AND-BACKPACKS WAY EITHO[L;;KDL**  
 **CG: EITHER.**  
 **CG: WE ARE TALKING INEXPLICABLY PERSISTENT STENCHES, BLEEDING WALLS, AND 'Ksdd;AL   ;**  
 **CG: GFDI EGBERY AT; THIOS RAT4E I''LL BR DEAD BEFORE YPU**  
  
The door of your room opens with an insulting lack of urgency. John lounges in the doorway with his hands in his pockets and watches you cough up your airsacs.  
  
"Wow, that sounds like a bad one!" he says, and you contemplate whether you still possess the vitality to punch his inappropriately cheerful smile down his throat. "You should go back to bed!"  
  
"Fuck that," you gurgle. "I will die at my post like a troll, damn you." You can't give up yet, you still have to troll Sollux and tell him he can have all the rest of your stuff.  
  
 **\- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] -**  
  
 **CG:      LM;;LK,.M.,;LL[]0-=**  
  
"Okay, you're done," John says brightly, taking hold of your arm. He loops it around his neck and starts steering you toward your bed.  
  
You try to explain how unacceptable his attitude is. The first word sets off a coughing fit so bad your knees buckle. John matter-of-factly scoops you up and carries you the rest of the way. He tucks you in, pulling the covers up to your chin, and turns away. You catch his wrist. Your grip is weak, but he stops and looks back.  
  
"That's it?" you rasp. "No goodbye? No 'It was nice knowing you, Karkat! I'll miss you, buddy!' Why are you acting _happy_ about this?"  
  
His smile melts slowly into confusion, confusion into remorse, and remorse into honest-to-God, punched-in-the-heart, poleaxed _pity_ like no one has ever shown you before.  
  
"Holy shit, Karkat," he breathes. "You actually think you're dying."  
  
Your glare is ruined by the effort it takes not to cough.  
  
"You're not playing it up for humor. You think you're dying for real. And you think I would just laugh it off? And walk away? You _dick_." He sounds hurt, but his eyes are still pity-soft. "It's just a flu, Karkat! Jeez! And for the record, I was _going_ to get you some medicine and extra blankets."  
  
"... Oh." You have no idea what a 'flu' is, and you're not at all convinced it won't kill you, but you should've known he wouldn't just leave you. "Sorry."  
  
He sighs. "It's okay. Just... quit freaking out. I'll be back in a minute."  
  
Left alone with nothing to do but listen to your sinuses whistle, it feels more like an hour before he returns with his arms full. He juggles a small army of bottles onto the bedside table, then piles blankets on you until you ought to be roasting. You still feel cold.  
  
He makes you take chalky little white pills, big chewy orange pills, and a tiny cupful of deep green syrup that tastes like something you'd mop floors with. He has you wash it all down with big gulps of blue Gatorade, which is palatable only by comparison with the green syrup. The green syrup, you inform him, is obviously made from the bile secretions of horrorterrors.  
  
"Nobody likes it," John assures you, "but it'll make you feel better."  
  
You scowl up at him. "I notice you aren't saying it'll _cure_ me."  
  
"There's no cure, it just has to run its course."  
  
You're about to tell him precisely what you think of his chirpy bullshit, because the words 'there's no cure' should _not_ be said with a smile, but he derails you by bending closer and stroking an icy hand across your forehead and down your cheek.  
  
"Egbert," you croak. "What."  
  
"You're really hot."  
  
"Um."  
  
"I hope WebMD is right about human fever reducers working on trolls."  
  
"Oh." Well, _that_ was almost really awkward. But his hand sure is lingering.  
  
He sits up and puts his smile back on. "Don't worry, if your temperature doesn't come down soon I'll do some more research and find something that _does_ work. So what do you want me to read to you?"  
  
You blink up at him, dizzy with emotional whiplash. Well, mainly dizzy from an incurable disease that is probably still going to kill you despite his assurances. But realizing that the reason he took so long to fetch the blankets and Green Death bottle was because he was looking up treatments for you... you don't know what to do with that. It's almost worse than the face-touching.  
  
"Or should I just leave you to sleep?" he adds when the silence stretches too long.  
  
"No!" You bite back the rest of it: _don't leave me alone_. "Um, the -- on top of --" Coughing cuts off the rest of it, but your gesture leads him to your to-read pile, and he brings back the book with the bookmark in it.  
  
"Wow, 'Wuthering Heights', that's like real literature! I don't think a single bodice gets ripped in the whole thing, are you sure you want to hear this one?"  
  
"Fuck you," you rasp. "Read it or don't, I don't care."  
  
John flops down on his stomach beside you, hip to hip and elbow to elbow. Opens the book to your place, props himself up on his crossed arms, and starts reading. "'But I don't like the carving-knife, Mr. Hindley,' I answered; 'it has been cutting red herrings. I'd rather be shot, if you please.'" He looks up at you with a laugh. "Maybe your taste in books doesn't suck after all!"  
  
"A little less --" pause to cough -- "commentary, John."  
  
"Oh, fine. Um... 'You'd rather be damned,' he said; 'and so you shall' -- I can't even point out the blatant semicolon abuse going on here?"  
  
You groan. "John..."  
  
He giggles, but goes back to reading without further interruption.  
  
His voice washes over you like eddies of warm wind. Little by little the shivers abate. The headache doesn't go away, but it subsides from 'my skull is about to burst and release a vast swarm of slightly smaller skulls, each one equipped with eye lasers, spider legs, and a throbbing headache of its own' to 'three or four angry monkeys with rubber mallets'. The urge to cough gets easier to fight. You sink into a stupor, feel unconsciousness sucking at you like a deep, black bog.  
  
Is this the medicine he gave you, or is it death? You feel so hazy, so heavy, maybe this is the final weakness. Would John lie to you? Would he tell you there's hope of recovery to make your final moments less terrifying? Would he be able to joke with you, to read to you with that sweet little smile on his face?  
  
He glances over and sees you struggling to keep your eyes open, and his smile turns pitying again. Would he look at you like that if you were truly going to be all right? "You're not shivering," he says gently. He puts the backs of his fingers against your cheek for a moment. "Good, it's working."  
  
"'m so tired," you say, in a tiny wiggler voice that doesn't sound like you at all.  
  
"Should I go so you can sleep?"  
  
You shake your head slightly. "Keep --" You glance at the book.  
  
"Okay." He resumes reading.  
  
If you _are_ dying, you know for a damn fact there are worse ways to go than warm and sedated, lulled by the sound of John's voice. With a great, final effort, you work a hand free and grope toward his until you feel him clasp it. Then you let yourself sink into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

You wake up, and almost wish you hadn't.

  
All your symptoms are back in force, and they brought reinforcements. Your mouth tastes like robot puke. Your eyeballs are three sizes too big. _Your fucking eyelids are throbbing_. You're drenched with sweat, your bones ache, and when you sit up you double over and cough up something that feels like a half-rotted jellyfish in your mouth, which you have to swallow because there's nowhere to spit.  
  
Croaking John's name does not cause him to appear. You have to piss and you're dying of thirst, otherwise you'd just take a wild guess at the dosages on those medicines he left you and go back to sleep. You bully yourself out of bed and lurch to the bathroom by sheer force of surliness.  
  
The apartment is dark. John is probably asleep. Or maybe he went out. The kitchen clock says it's two in the morning. He's stayed over at Dave's playing games before, slept on the couch there more than once. Maybe he got tired of your sick-sweat and wheezing, and absconded. But he was so upset by the implication that he'd walk out on you... no, he's a jerk sometimes but he's a better friend than that. Asleep, then. You'll have to make an effort to cough quietly.  
  
You flop into your computer chair and nudge the mouse to wake up the screen.  
  
 **CG:      LM;;LK,.M.,;LL[]0-=**  
 **TA: interesting, tell me m0re.**  
 **TA: n0, seri0usly, tell me m0re, i have n0 idea what i'm supp0sed to glean fr0m that.**  
 **TA: 0kay, what the fuck, KK. i am starting t0 w0rry, and w0rry is n0t a g00d l00k 0n me.**  
 **TA: d0 i need t0 c0me 0ver there?**  
 **CG: hi, sollux! karkat can't come to the computer right now.**  
 **TA: well, that's n0t 0min0us as fuck.**  
 **CG: he just has the flu. i made him go to bed.**  
 **TA: what the fuck is a flu?**  
 **CG: look it up! i just thought i should tell you so you don't come over and get infected.**  
 **TA: infected??**  
 **CG: ok, gotta go!**  
  
 **\- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling twinArmageddons [TA] -**  
  
Look it up. Yes, you should do that. Fuck, you're freezing again. Your hands feel like they weigh a ton, and you keep making ridiculous typos. You can barely read the screen, can't parse what you do read, and as far as you can tell everything you're finding is aimed at humans. It makes you so frustrated, so angry, that you start crying. And now you can't read at all, which makes it worse, and the next thing you know you're sobbing too hard to type.  
  
The front door rattles. You hear John singing under his breath as he jingles his keys. You try to get yourself under control, but the tears won't stop, and then it's too late to save face -- John bursts in all rosy-cheeked from cold, smiling, arms full of grocery bags, swaddled in two years' worth of Rose's knitted gifts. He hears you, looks through the open door to where you sit shivering and biting back sobs. Smiles-and-singing time is abruptly over. He shoves his bags onto the entry table, knocking over a picture frame, and charges into your room like an army.  
  
Hiding your face would just look like a cheesy play for pity, so you glare at him instead. It doesn't slow him down. He storms right into your personal space, takes your wet face between his wooly gloves, and bends down to stare blue-eyed concern at you from four fucking inches away. "Karkat," he demands.  
  
"I don't know," you snap. "I was just -- and then _this_ \-- and I don't even _know_." To your horror, you burst out sobbing afresh.  
  
"Oh, man." He's pityfacing at you again, but at least he no longer looks about to kill something. "Yeah, the flu can do that to you." He hasn't let go of your face. He's trying to mop your tears with his thumbs. You fully intend to push his hands away, but somehow it just doesn't happen. To tell the truth, what he's doing really kind of... calms you... down...  
  
Oh no. He's shooshing you. He has no idea what he's doing, he's not capable of properly meaning it, but it's still working, and you're just... not up to fighting it.  
  
Half ashamed and half relieved, you let your cheek rest against his hand. His eyes go soft and misty, just as if he were a troll and his pity was romantic. You close your eyes and let him wipe your face. "You're going to wreck your gloves," you murmur.  
  
"Rose will be glad of an excuse to knit me new ones," he says just as softly. "Come on, let's get you back to bed."  
  
You not only let him pick you up, you put your arms around his neck and lean your head on his shoulder. You're shameless. "I can't sleep any more," you protest.  
  
"You wanna be on the couch instead?"  
  
"Where will _you_ be?"  
  
You feel his chest hitch against you as he catches his breath. He sounds a little strangled as he says, "Wherever you are, if you want me there."  
  
You nod slightly. "Couch."  
  
Giving in to selfishness, you wallow in the illusion of pale love as he settles you on the sofa, piling pillows behind you and blankets on top of you. He gives you more medicine, has you pick out a video to watch, moves the coffee table so you can reach the remote.  
  
The kitchen and living room are separated only by a wide arch; you watch John instead of the movie. He fills up the kettle, puts away the things he bought -- are those tea boxes? But both of you usually drink coffee. And what are those little bags, like candy bags but not quite colorful enough and with too much writing on them?  
  
You find out soon enough. He brings one over, opens it, and hands it to you. You read the package with building emotion.  
  
WILD CHERRY FLAVOR  
TRIPLE SOOTHING ACTION  
SOOTHES SORE THROATS  
RELIEVES COUGHS  
COOLS NASAL PASSAGES  
  
Oblivious to your dewy eyes, John fishes out a little oblong and unwraps it. "Here. Suck it, don't chew it. Well, I guess nothing bad happens if you crunch it up, it just works better if --"  
  
"You went out for me."  
  
He tilts his head, confused by your distress. "Yes?"  
  
"At two in the morning. The bus isn't running. The corner store is closed. You walked -- what, three miles?"  
  
"Karkat --"  
  
"In the cold, and you can't see in the dark, and there are assholes abroad at night and you're not a god anymore, John, it's not safe!"  
  
"Karkat, it's --"  
  
"Just to get me medicine candy!" you conclude in a hoarse shout. "John, tell me the truth! I'm really dying, aren't I? That's why you're being so -- so nice to me."  
  
He rolls his eyes, pops the medicine candy into your mouth, and kisses your forehead. "You're _not dying_ , Karkat," he sighs. He stands up. "Do you want tea or broth?"  
  
"If it's no big deal," you garble around the candy -- which does not taste like cherry very much at all, it _lies_ \-- "then why are you acting so --" You can't say 'nice' again, and you know he'll just dismiss it if you accuse him of pale-flirting, but he cannot convince you that forehead kiss was a normal human friendship thing.  
  
He turns back at the kitchen arch. His face is serious, but there's a scrunch of amusement around his eyes. "Well, you _are_ being awfully pitiable right now." Before you can recover from that, he holds up a box in one hand and a jar in the other and waggles them as if that's supposed to make them look more enticing. "Broth or tea?"  
  
You are utterly defeated. You're done resisting. If he wants to play moirail, then you'll cough up diamonds for him until he comes to his senses or you expire. You're too sick to fight it anymore.  
  
"Broth," you croak.  
  
"You got it."  
  
"And cuddles."  
  
He hesitates, staring, and for a second you think you misread him. Then a brilliant smile breaks over his face. "Coming right up."


	3. Chapter 3

 

 **CG: I'M NOT DEAD YET.**  
 **TA: nice 0f y0u t0 take a m0ment 0ut 0f y0ur busy schedule 0f t0tally ign0ring me t0 deliver that n0t even slightly self-evident nugget 0f inf0rmati0n.**  
 **TA: i appreciate that s0 much.**  
 **CG: IT'S TAKING LONGER THAN I EXPECTED.**  
 **TA: what is?**  
 **CG: DYING.**  
 **TA: 0kay, tempting as it is t0 play al0ng and watch y0u flip y0ur shit, y0u're 0bvi0usly n0t y0ur usual el0quently 0bn0xi0us self.**  
 **TA: s0 i'm g0ing t0 d0 y0u a huge fav0r and act as the v0ice 0f reas0n here.**  
 **TA: y0u're n0t dying. if egbert says y0u are, he's pranking y0u.**  
 **CG: NO, HE SAYS THE SAME THING. BUT THE WAY HE'S ACTING**  
 **CG: HE'S JUST**  
 **CG: IF I WASN'T**  
 **TA: shit, KK. this is better than th0se keymashes a c0uple nights ag0, but n0t much.**  
 **TA: maybe y0u sh0uldn't be at the c0mputer.**  
 **CG: IT'S THE GREEN SYRUP. I CAN'T**  
 **CG: WORDS**  
 **CG: VERY MUCH.**  
 **CG: I'M ON MY PHONE. IN BED.**  
 **TA: well, g00d.**  
 **TA: fuck, i sh0uldn't laugh, but y0u're a stitch like this.**  
 **TA: wh0 am i kidding. i sh0uld t0tally laugh.**  
 **TA: 0kay, tr0ll shakespeare, explain t0 me in y0ur 0wn disj0inted sentence fragments why y0u refuse t0 believe y0u're n0t terminal.**  
 **CG: JOHN IS PLAYING PRETEND MOIRAIL.**  
 **CG: VERY CONVINCINGLY.**  
 **TA: that's... kind 0f n0t 0kay.**  
 **CG: NO, IT'S FINE. I KNOW IT CAN'T BE REAL BUT.**  
 **CG: HE'S GOOD AT IT.**  
 **TA: KK, humans 0nly have 0ne quadrant.**  
 **CG: I KNOW I KNOW SHUT UP**  
 **CG: YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT?**  
 **CG: I'M NOT PALE FOR HIM EITHER, BUT WHEN I'M THIS WEAK AND HELPLESS**  
 **CG: HE REALLY DOES PITY ME, AND I KNOW HUMAN PITY'S NOT ROMANTIC AND HE KNOWS I KNOW SO**  
 **CG: WHY ELSE WOULD HE CUDDLE ME AND BRING ME THINGS AND KISS MY CHEEK EXCEPT TO MAKE MY LAST NIGHTS LESS LONELY?**  
 **CG: EVEN HE WOULDN'T DO THIS AS A PRANK.**  
 **TA: KK, listen t0 me. this is imp0rtant inf0rmation, and i need y0u t0 shake 0ff the medicinal haze and pay cl0se attenti0n:**  
 **TA: humans**  
 **TA: 0nly**  
 **TA: have**  
 **TA: 0ne**  
 **TA: quadrant.**  
 **TA: you criminally 0blivious, r0mantically retarded wankstain.**  
 **CG: BUT HE**  
 **CG: BUT IF**  
 **CG: OH**  
 **CG: OH WOW.**  
 **TA: g00d, well d0ne. picture, if y0u will, my measured applause.**  
 **TA: n0w w0uld y0u g00gle tr0ll influenza already and quit flipping y0ur shit?**  
 **TA: and hey, while y0u've g0t the wind0w 0pen, try l00king up 'h0w t0 tell if s0me0ne is pale f0r me in real life where r0mantic pr0spects aren't designated by c0nvenient rains 0f fl0wer petals and swelling sappy music like they are in my m0r0nic m0vies.'**  
 **TA: assh0le.**  
  
 **\- twinArmageddons [TA] has ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist -**  
  
John comes in with the refilled reservoir of the new humidifier, and snickers at your face. "Did you read something shocking, or are you just mouth-breathing because your nose is stuffed up? I can't tell."  
  
"I think," you begin, and trail off. You frown at the phone, no longer sure you understand anything at all.  
  
There's a glugging as he fits the reservoir into place. He flicks it on, and the comforting hiss of steam resumes. He went out and bought the contraption yesterday while you were sleeping. He's always awake when you are, too. He claims to have been taking naps, but his eyes look bruisy with fatigue. That's a long way to go for faking pale. But for a real human single-quadrant romance... you don't know. You just don't know.  
  
"You think?" he prompts.  
  
"I think Sollux is pale for me."  
  
John beams. "It's about time!"  
  
It's hard to swallow, and only partly because your throat hurts. "And um. He pointed something out to me. You... I thought..." You don't know how to phrase this, and your thinksponge is too saturated with mucus and Green Death to function properly.  
  
John sits on the edge of the bed and hands you the glass of orange juice from the bedside table. "Yes?" he says encouragingly when you give it back.  
  
"He reminded me humans only have one quadrant." You force it out in a rush, then glare at him, daring him to even try to bullshit you.  
  
He looks surprised, and for a moment you think he's going to play innocent. But what he says is, "Did you forget?"  
  
"No, but. The way you." You grimace, holding back another cough until you can talk without letting it out. "You shooshed me. You calmed me down and."  
  
His surprise is fading into worry with a twist of hurt. "I wasn't _trying_ to copy troll romance. Oh shit. Now I feel like a huge jerk."  
  
"No, I." Wow, Karkat, way to make everything terrible. "I thought you were kind of. Trying to. to. So I could die happy."  
  
John throws his hands up with a growl of exasperation and a huge eyeroll. He snatches your phone from your unresisting hand, types furiously for a minute, and shoves it back at you.  
  
You struggle to focus on the web page he brought up. 'Influenza in trolls' is the title. You take the phone. You read.  
  
You feel like a moron.  
  
"It says it's more serious for us," you say defensively as you toss the phone aside. "More likely to be fatal than in humans."  
  
"In very young or old trolls, or if they have a weak immune system!" he shouts. "Or if left untreated! Karkat, if people were cars you'd be a fucking Abrams tank! You're the unstoppable force and the immovable object rolled into one! If you were any tougher you'd be bulletproof! And I've been taking really good care of you, too, and if you got worse I'd know the signs, I've done so much research, I'd know if you needed the emergency room and I put the fastest local cab company in my phone and I've been carrying taxi money at all times just in case and _Jesus fuck, Karkat, do you honestly think I'd let you die?_ "  
  
You gape. John is on the verge of tears. You've never seen him like this. He's really put that much effort into looking out for you? He's really that sure you'll be okay? He's been so affectionate just because he felt like it?  
  
Something in your chest swells, unfurls, as if your heart has been cramped in a cocoon all this time, and it's only now emerging. Oh shit, you pity the _fuck_ out of him.  
  
And it's okay that it's not pale, because the only quadrant humans have is the red one.  
  
"I'm sorry," you say hoarsely. "I'm just not used to. You know." You gesture at the humidifier, as if it can stand in for all the care no one ever gave you.  
  
"I know," John says.  
  
He reaches for your face, slowly, giving you time to stop him. You catch his hand and pull, reel him down by it, half sit up to meet him.  
  
Feverish as you are, his lips feel chilly. It's weird and sublime. When you start shaking from holding yourself up, he follows you down to the pillow and keeps kissing you, little soft kisses with pauses between so you can breathe, because your nose is stuffed up. It's not dignified or pretty or like any kind of movie kiss you've ever seen, but you find you don't mind at all. Eventually you're too tired even for that; then you just lie side by side looking at each other, trading giddy, disbelieving grins.  
  
"They really don't taste like cherry, do they?" he says.  
  
"They taste like gasoline, John. And I will forever associate that flavor with you being inexplicably wonderful to me, and I'll probably develop a taste for the damn things. Thanks a lot."  
  
"Well, they _are_ red," he points out.  
  
"Did you do that on purpose? Was it a hint? John, you ass, did you do that shit on purpose -- stop laughing, you goon." But you're laughing too. It makes you cough, and you don't even care.

 

\- end -


End file.
